


A fencing suit? Worst superhero outfit ever.

by afra_schatz



Series: Sherlock Grammar School AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fencing, Humour, M/M, Sherlock being the king of the jungle, UST, grammar school au, john has some issues, massive denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/pseuds/afra_schatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grammar School AU, second story in this verse, but it can be read as a standalone. – So, Sherlock still excells at everything, especially at being a completely pretentious git. John has no idea why no one but him sees that or why suddenly his subconscious is being a fucking traitor and manufactures these… dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A fencing suit? Worst superhero outfit ever.

John is currently not on speaking terms with his sister. There’s a few things that not even relatives are supposed to be doing. And John is not talking about little stuff here, whether or not Harry swears it was just a joke. There’s things you just don’t joke about.

“So, you’re mates with Sherlock Holmes now?” Mike asks just after plopping down between Ben and John in the cafeteria.

John nearly chokes on his spaghetti. While he is coughing and Ben thinks he is being helpful by slapping his broad palm onto John’s back, Molly turns her ever-soulful whithering look of disappointment at John. One last karate slap from Ben dislogdges the nearly-deadly noodle from John’s throat and the first thing he does, even before whiping the tears from his eyes, is shake his head vehemently.

“Seriously?” Mike asks.

“You’re friends with the bloke who got me a dead frog and a scalpel as a Secret Santa gift?” Molly accuses anyway.

John is fairly certain that Sherlock did no such thing. Not because he isn’t a horrible person (he is) but because John would bet his sole pair of clean underpants that Sherlock has his flunkies buy gifts for him. And do his homework. And break up with his boyfriends. 

Seriously, it’s so obvious, even right now Sherlock is holding court at his usual table closest to the windows. He’s not even eating anything (John personally thinks that it’s because they don’t serve human blood in the school cafeteria, not even for Sherlock Holmes) but his tray is full of stuff anyway, no doubts sacrifices from his adoring flock of followers. He’s got his feet propped up on one chair and no one says anything about that, nor about the fact that once again his obligatory school uniform tie is missing and the top three buttons of his shirt are open. One of the other guys just finishes telling a joke and the table errupts with laughter. Only Sherlock isn’t laughing, he’s doing this superior smirk thing of his. It’s the least obnoxious expression in his repertoire and still John wants to smash his face into Mike’s mountain of mashed potatoes.

Speaking of Mike. John drags his eyes away from Sherlock, back to his mates. Molly is looking at him mournfully but let’s face it that’s both her wallpaper and her screensaver go-to look. Ben is shaking his head. And even Mike eyes him sceptically while shoving mountains of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“What?” John demands.

“It’s sad, really,” says Ben.

“Fall of the resistance,” says Molly. “Must be what France felt like when the Nazis invaded.”

“Are we going with the Sherlock is a Nazi theme now?” Mike asks. “Because I’m not sure whether I’m down with that. Mostly because that’d make John a collaborator and that’s not cool.”

“Well, there’s the whole being friends with the enemy thing now,” Ben says.

“I am not friends with Sherlock!” John insists, maybe a little too loudly. “Why would you even say such a thing?”

Mike shrugs and uses his momentarily empty fork to point in the general direction of where Harry is sitting with some of her friends. 

Ben provides, “Your sister told us.”

“My sister,” John says and tries to glare a hole into Harry’s back, “is a compulsive liar.”

“Hm,” Mike says contemplatively and leaves it at that. 

Ben however shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know. I mean, you are doing this Greek thing with him, aren’t you?”

“I –“ John starts.

Around potatoes Mike says, “For an entire term, no less.”

“Jesus,” says Molly, looking torn between shock and pity. “How did that _happen_?”

“It’s not –“

“He didn’t know what he was agreeing to,” says Ben and even to John’s ears that sounds less than convincing. He shrugs. “That’s what Harry says he told her.”

“Mate,” says Mike and it sounds like an accusation.

And there it is, that eternal problem with people. Just because you are willing to partner up with the devil himself to get a good mark doesn’t mean you’re an opportunistic traitor. Well, okay it probably does. But it’s not John’s reason for working with Sherlock anyway. That he agreed to do this Greek thing with him gives him opportunity to figure out his weaknesses. That’s all. John is just biding his time to use that knowledge some day and shove Sherlock of his high horse. Working with Sherlock therefore is nothing like a public announcement of friendship but more like... industrial enspionage. John is a spy.

Okay. That sounded lame even in his own head. But no doubt _Sherlock_ would think of himself as some sort of teenage 007 and add snooping around to his repertoire of spy abilities (John has to admit that in this scenario fencing isn’t as ridiculous a thing as in any other). But that’s beside the point. The point is John is not Sherlock Holmes, nor does he even _like_ Sherlock or can stand being in the same room with the guy without wanting to throttle him.

He comes home from his first homework meeting with Sherlock and has to rant at Harry for a solid fifteen minutes about how much of an arsehole Sherlock is. Harry listens patiently while eating a yoghurt, then she tells him to shut the door of the fridge that John has pulled open before getting taken over by his hatred. Then she says, “Shame he doesn’t have pigtails. You could pull them.”

John hates his sister almost as much as he hates Sherlock and that is saying something. John has entire periods of his day reserved for Sherlock-hating. That is not because he hasn’t got any other, healthier hobbies. Well, maybe ‘healthier’ is stretching it a bit. Neither computer game genocide nor rugby are particularly wholesome, and ever since he got a hold of his mother’s credit card the entire online gambling thing has gotten a bit out of hand, too. Anyway, John has other daily activities he has to take care of and could very well do without developping an ulcer thanks to Sherlock.

The problem isn’t even working with Sherlock. If it was just that. The problem starts with trying to find a date to _start_ working. Of course that alone is near impossible with Mr. Popularity Holmes. Sherlock has more social commitments than a world-renowed weapons dealer. The only thing surprising John is that he gets declining texts from Sherlock himself and not from his personal assistant. 

Sherlock has fencing on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, he has boxing on Tuesdays and Saturdays, does some sort of lab experiment thing every other Thursday and Friday, has a mysterious family thing every other evening at half past six. He also has about a billion friends on Facebook which translates to at least a thousand close acquaintances in real life that he has to grace with his presence. Also, John has the growing suspicion that Sherlock has a standing order delivery thing for boyfriends going. He is probably doing locker room fencing with them three times a week, classy date that he undoubtedly is.

John may or may not have spent too long a time thinking about that before his second meeting with Sherlock. Fact is, he arrives at the library and is already mad at Sherlock for being an inconsiderate, self involved manwhore and he hasn’t even seen him yet. 

Thankfully, growing up in a family with military background and with a sister who throws a mean punch, John has learned to keep his mouth shut. So their second work date he spends with his teeth embedded into his tongue. Not that Sherlock (once he has shown up ten minutes late and looking fashionably rumpled) even notices. Nope. John is silently fuming because being able to hold on to a grudge is something he prides himself with. Even though admittedly, after half an hour he has sort of forgotten what he was angry about because it takes most of his concentration to keep up with Sherlock’s reasoning. Sherlock talks a mile a minute and trying to follow his logic feels like lying belly down on the hood of a race car which is driven by someone totally rat arsed.

John tells Harry about this ordeal later that evening, in the vain hope to get her to pity him. He should’ve know better. The world hates him and his sister nearly falls off his bed because she has a hysterical laughing fit.

At least Sherlock (in contrast to Harry who is still John’s sister and he is sort of obligated to love her) makes it easy for John to dream about killing him. 

That’s not a figure of speech by the way. John rather frequently does dream about killing Sherlock. In those dreams, John usually has been captured and held hostage in an abandoned library (how very symbolic). Apparently dream villains have nothing better to do with their time than tie John up and gag him and attach a bomb to some part of his body. John feels a little not good about that every time. 

There’s usually a big clock attached to the bomb, timer in plain sight for John to see. It’s normally about ten seconds left before Sherlock bursts into the room. Sometimes he’s wearing his black coat and looks like a particularly snotty-nosed Batman. Sometimes he wears his fencing suit and if John weren’t gagged he’d ask him who in their right mind decides to put on a fencing suit when heading out to save people’s life. Complete with breeches and plastron, épée in one, mask in the other hand. Seriously. Worst superhero outfit ever.

Sherlock easily disarms the bomb but instead of getting ripped apart by an explosion John now gets tortured to death by Sherlock’s condescending speech about how only idiots get themselves captured and how _Sherlock_ could’ve disarmed the bomb with his toes. This is the part where John wants to kill Sherlock by the way. Sherlock never unties John and that’s probably smart of him because if freed John would shove the bomb – or anything else really – into Sherlock’s mouth just to get him to stop bloody talking.

He never tells anyone about those dreams. His parents (who don’t know Sherlock and hence obviously have no idea how entirely justified John’s bloody fantasies are) would probably send him to the school psychiatrist. Harry would read things into that dream that would give John serious nightmares and wish he’d dreamed of Freddy Kruger instead.

However, he does tell Sherlock about them one afternoon. Mostly sort of by accident.

It’s the third time they met for their assignment and as per usual Sherlock started the meeting by taking one cursory look at John’s research, declaring it nonsense and launching into one of his lectures about the idiocy of people printing out Wikipedia entries. John – who by the way copied his research from answers.com not Wikipedia, thank you very much – crosses his arms in front of his chest and sits down at their table in an abandoned corner of the school library. Sherlock runs around in circles, talks to himself and throws the occasional book in John’s general direction. John watches Sherlock gesticulate wildly and he can only partly follow the conversation that the insane part of Sherlock’s brain is having with the mad one. 

When Sherlock takes a breath (after five solid minutes of monologue) John says, “You know, I have a recurring dream. You’re starring in it.”

Sherlock stops his pacing and every ounce of concentration he has just been juggling around is now focussed on John.

“What are you talking about?”

John leans back in his chair. If he was on Facebook he’d name ‘rattling Sherlock’s cage’ as his favourite interest.

“This dream,” he says, “always ends decidedly unsatifactory.”

Sherlock’s icy blue eyes stare down at him. Lack of comprehension is chasing frustration in them, both pursued by a tiny but vicious amount of alarm. He narrows his eyes. It’s a look with which he can make people scatter like pigeons from a fifty yards distance. John keeps his face impassive, he’s good at that. He may or may not have practiced it for hours in front of the mirror.

Sherlock shakes his head and it’s like all systems restart. John can see his own facial expression mirrored in Sherlock’s now and for a splitsecond he is disappointed.

“There’s work to be done and yet you think I’m interested in what you’re up to at night?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s about you. I thought it would fit into your general view of the world. Centre of the universe and all that.”

Sherlock scoffs, rolls his eyes, but still bites. “I presume your dream is unsatisfactory because I am not doing all the work?” His tone of voice now matches the colour of his eyes.

“No.”

“You don’t solve the problem, not even when you’re tapping into your subconscious?”

“Nope, that’s not it either.”

Sherlock tilts his head and something clicks, makes John automatically square his shoulders. Like John, Sherlock is still in his school uniform – black trousers, white shirt, green and silver striped tie – but for some reason he suddenly looks like 007 zeroing in on a nymphomaniac Bond girl with huge knockers. 

“I’m not a bikini babe,” John mutters to himself and granted, without the proper context that statement may sound a little strange. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows arch.

“So, it was a sex dream,” he says slowly as if stating a fact. “Too bad you’re not my type.” He makes a little sound and it can’t be anything but absolutely condescending pity. 

It instantly raises John’s hackles and he gets up from his chair. He doesn’t even contemplate correcting Sherlock because the louder you deny and whatnot. And he fucking refuses to blush. Instead of smacking Sherlock he takes a deep breath and bends down and picks up one of the books that Sherlock swept off the table earlier. He makes a point of dusting it off, then puts it back on the small pile.

“Don’t kid yourself,” he says and God, he is proud of the lack of emotion in his voice. “I am exactly your type.” 

He sits back down and pulls a book towards himself and opens it, letting his eyes glide onto the page. Sherlock doesn’t reply immediately. He doesn’t pace, doesn’t huff, John is pretty sure he doesn’t even blink but he can’t say that for sure because he is now carefully not looking at Sherlock. 

After the eternity of a second Sherlock laughs. It’s not his usual lion-king-in-the-savanna-summoning-his-hyaena-flunkies roar though, nor the arrogant scoff sneaking out between smirking lips. It’s short and soft and still entirely too loud for the library and that is totally the sole reason why it makes a shiver run over John’s back. Sherlock sits down opposite of John and his eyes shine with something warmer than malice. He pulls the book John has not-really been reading towards himself and nods at John.

“Okay. So maybe you’re right.”

In the short pause that follows John is too shocked by that admission of... well, what exactly? to do anything but keep himself from fidgeting. He reminds himself that Sherlock is an arsehole. It doesn’t really help. 

“Maybe we really should give Sophocles’s Ajax more consideration,” Sherlock says then, his elaboration deliberately late. He breaks their eyelock and dives into the book. “Now, look at that. You’re not entirely useless, John.”

It’s very reassuring actually. Sherlock being a dick and all that. John’s world order would crumble otherwise. 

So, with something that feels a little like relief – sort of like milk way over the due date tastes like milk – he picks up his notes, smiles at Sherlock and says with the maximum amount of pleasantness, “Fuck you, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Sherlock says without looking up from his book, innuendo on autopilot now that he has found something more fascinating than John’s sex drive to focus on.

Which, honestly, is fine with John. Is totally brilliant in fact. John doesn’t spend the next half hour staring at Sherlock’s mouth. He has something like pride and self-restraint and standards and even if he didn’t, he is excellent at repressing stuff.

However, a small problem occurs later that day. Later that night, to be more precise. 

It turns out that John’s sex drive doesn’t respond too well to being dragged out in the open, only to then be abandoned for Greek literature. No matter how totally inaccurate Sherlock’s assumptions about John’s sexual preferences were in the first place. In any case, John cottons on to that fact a little too late. 

It occurs to him when his usual dream of being held hostage doesn’t take place in the abandoned library but his bedroom. He’s not tied to a chair either but to his bed. He also is somewhat naked, which is new, and when he looks around for the bomb he can’t spot it. It may be because it’s not there, but maybe he is just too distracted by yet another novelty in this dream. 

Sherlock comes to the rescue and he is wearing his black coat alright. Thing is, he isn’t wearing anything else. Furthermore, John is pretty sure that in the previous versions of this dream there wasn’t any need for mouth-to-mouth. And even if pressed he couldn’t really explain how Sherlock’s hand around both their cocks is helping defeating super villains either.

Clearly, his subconscious makes no sense at all. 

In any case John wakes up shortly after the climax of err that story and has to change his fucking pyjama bottoms in the middle of the fucking night.

Fucking Sherlock bloody Holmes.

This is a great deal of not good.

John is definitely not telling Harry about this.

Or Sherlock.


End file.
